The crushed glass of ideas gilds my windowsill. Explosions of social convention distract my work. I assemble rifle rounds by hand by the illumination of fuzzy screens. I've no time for sulfur and dancing lights. I stalk wild gypsies and ex-Mormons through pedestrian banality. Joyless work that squelches the hours. In the mirror, I watch a chrysalis that never blooms.
11:49 a.m. - 2017-07-10
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
Heartdesert - 2018-06-25
Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
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